


All Thumbs

by Toastybluetwo



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-18
Updated: 2011-10-18
Packaged: 2017-10-24 18:30:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/266554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toastybluetwo/pseuds/Toastybluetwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the months following the battle at Kirkwall, as Hawke and his companions wander through Antiva and Rivain, Varric struggles with conflicting feelings about Anders. (Anders/Varric)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All Thumbs

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spicyshimmy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicyshimmy/gifts).



> Written by request of Spicyshimmy, who wanted to see Varric/Anders post-Kirkwall.

“He said that he would decide whether he would continue to support me or not once we reached Dairsmuid.” Anders stared past Varric, down at the rushing river that moved away from them with ceaseless energy. “He also said that we’re finished. Through. No chance of reconciliation.” His voice faltered, becoming lost in the endless splashes of the surging water. “I’ve lost him.”

“Look, I’m sorry that it happened, but you must have known that this would be a possibility.” Varric, for the first time in his life, found himself unable to look someone he was speaking to squarely in the face. He chose instead to look at Anders’ hands – one tucked under his scruffy chin, the other resting on one of his bony knees. “You lied to us all. Hawke gave you plenty of chances to confide in him.”

Something settled into Varric’s chest and squeezed, both jealously and darkly. He watched as the hand beneath the sharp chin moved to one of Anders’ cheeks. In his head came a simple statement filled with regret: _You could have told me. You should have told me._

“If I am to continue to live, I will work to regain your trust.” Anders stared down at his feet now, at boots that were badly patched with scraps of leather. “It is small compensation for what I’ve done, but it’s something.”

Varric should have been comforted by those words. He knew that it suited him best to see the intention offered in these things. Something alien, however, rose up inside of him. Perhaps it was the three months of walking across the Free Marches and Antiva. Perhaps it was the stealing food, taking farm labor jobs to earn a few coppers, walking through torrential rain without hope of shelter, cowering in tiny caves when the weather grew too cold. Perhaps Varric had been stretched to his limit, at last.

“Would you stop with the death talk? I get it, you’re a Grey Warden, but Andraste’s tits, stop it. It’s a mood killer, it’s irritating, and it’s old.”

Anders flinched at his shoes. He did not bother to look up, though the color slowly drained from his face. In Kirkwall, he had been pale from the amount of time that he spent in Darktown and within Hawke’s library. In the jungles of Antiva and Rivain, he had gained a sunburn that, with help of a salve and some patience, turned into a reluctant tan.

The reaction to his own words tumbling from his lips was to immediately follow it with an apology and an explanation. It wasn’t like him to be cross. It wasn’t like him to use discomfort as an excuse to abuse someone else. Yet, after these months of tireless, endless, ceaseless travel, Varric wondered if he was, at last, starting to crumble from the strain. Or was simply looking for someone on which to blame all of this.

It was, after all, Anders’ fault that they were forced to flee Kirkwall. But what exactly would assigning fault accomplish? It wasn’t like Varric to add more blame where plenty of blame had already been heaped, especially against someone that he considered to be a close friend, even after all that Anders had done.

Varric rose from the rock on which he had been sitting. How much time had passed since he had lost his temper at Anders? A few moments? An hour? Anders had not moved. He breathed and stared at his worn, tattered boots, and uttered the occasional soft sigh, too soft to be heard over the roaring of the river before him. Varric only knew that Anders sighed from the way his shoulders would rise sharply, then fall slowly, sinking almost in relief, like a man falling onto a soft bed in promise of a night’s blissful rest.

The ache in Varric’s chest remained. He longed to do something that he did not do to anyone else, as a matter of personal policy. Not anymore. It was too personal, and once that restraint was lost, there was no turning back. Everything changed when bodies made contact, not with just hands in hands or hands against hands, but arms wrapped around bodies and arms around.

He wanted nothing more than to give Anders a hug. A long, strong-armed hug around his painfully thin, bony body.

But the urge lay deeper than that. As he stared at the man that he had once considered a friend, he conjured a nurturing instinct within himself that warmed him deeper than any of the hot jungle rains they had travelled through. Anders was not caring for himself. He hadn’t been for awhile.

The courage rose within him, the desire to embrace Anders, to feed him, to make him stop looking so damn sad – all came at the very moment that the mage rose, made a deliberate point of continuing to stare at the ground, and started back for camp. Varric watched him go, all with the desire to say something that might stop Anders in his tracks.

Then again, he had a feeling that there was nothing left to be said, for the moment.

 

~*~

 

“He said he’ll take all of us.” Aveline was already working at removing her armor as she spoke. “Ten coppers a day, sun up to sundown, no breaks for meals, but we could take home a basketful every weekend.”

Varric had seen apple orchards and farms of wheat, corn, barley, and grapes, but he had never seen a pear orchard in his life. Before he found himself on the run with some of the dearest friends that he had ever known, he had visited such places, but never worked on them.

Once, ten coppers had been pittance for even an hour’s work. Now, it promised dinner that night, and the baskets of pears could add variety to what had been a remarkably bland diet.

Hawke and his companions left their armor and weapons deep within a cave. This cave had been their home for the past few weeks while they looked for work, any work, some kind of work that would give them enough money to buy food, clothing, and rent a home in Diarsmuid.

They would be farmhands for a few weeks. Backbreaking work was a preferable alternative to starving.

Isabela had walked with them as far as the border of Rivain, then announced that she was going back to Kirkwall to claim her ship. There were ruins that Merril wanted to examine within Antiva’s borders, ancient, crumbling stones that might have once belonged to Arlathan before the Tevinter Imperium claimed them as their own. As Varric picked up a basket, his shirtless back already beginning to burn in the sun’s heat, he could still hear their voices in his head. Isabela’s jokes and Merril’s naïveté were both missed and, in the dark hours of the night where it seemed that the world had lost its possibilities, needed.

He had feared that the branches would be too high for him to reach; this was not the case. He chose a tree with plenty of low-hanging branches, started beneath its boughs as he picked up the fallen fruit, and moved upward until he could go no higher on his own.

Then, Anders would take over.  
Wait. Anders?

Varric wondered how long Anders had been working next to him, in silence save for the occasional pants of exertion that escaped his cracked lips. Anders had also shed his coat and shirt though he left his jerkin on and unlaced. Within minutes, Varric noticed that Anders’ skin, also, began to show signs of the sun’s abuse. There would be healing spells for both of them tonight; that much was certain.

His basket grew heavy, so Varric carried it back to the foreman and received another. As he strode toward the tree that he and Anders worked so diligently to strip, he saw that Anders was looking at him.

The expression on Anders’ face gave Varric pause. In fact, it did, literally, cause Varric to stop his progress through the rows of trees. Anders stared at him with a quizzical look, a probing gaze, both of which suggested that Anders meant to tell him something. Or, perhaps he was expecting Varric to say something.

They were both covered in sweat and bearing the beginnings of bitter sunburns. What could be said?

Varric stared up at Anders, up at the ragged hair now long enough to be drawn entirely into a ponytail, the pale beard upon his chin and around his full lips looking somewhat unkempt. For a moment, his gaze moved just to those lips, and a thought slid into his mind, almost like an instinct. He wondered if Hawke missed those lips. He wondered what it felt like to kiss those lips, how soft the skin must have been, and whether or not that Anders had any skill at kissing at all.

Then again, Varric could say that Anders had the softest lips but a nice, firm kiss. He could say that Anders had mastered the many different ways of kissing, but that he preferred one that was firm, commanding, with heated blasts of his own breath upon the lips and mouth of an intended lover.

Thumbs on the shoulders. Yes. Anders would place both hands on his lover’s shoulders, thumbs where chest and arm met, thumbs that pressed inward and yet held this person in a state of stasis, unable to move without breaking the kiss, but why would this mysterious person want to do so?

Varric could imagine all of this. He _would_ imagine it. It was writer’s prerogative.

“I have a confession to make,” Anders said in a voice just loud enough for Varric to hear. “I’ve never eaten a pear in my entire life.”

Arching his eyebrows, Varric felt all thoughts of kissing creep away from his mind. “Are you kidding me?”

“Not a single one.” Anders plucked a particularly large pear from a branch just above his head and stared at it. “What does it taste like?”

“It tastes like a pear. There’s nothing like it, really. Softer like an apple, sometimes sweeter, sometimes not. It depends on the pear.” Varric moved to stand next to him, setting his basket at their feet. “We’ll be eating a lot of pears. You’ll get tired of them, trust me.”

“Only if we don’t make up recipes for them.” Anders looked up and over Varric, briefly noting the position of the nearest foreman before returning to work. “We could make fried pears, for example.”

“Hmm.” In Varric’s imagination, he could see a selection of pears floating in melted lard. “Perhaps with a splash of rum and some frozen custard, neither of which we can afford yet. Now, bake a pear with some molasses and sugar and there, my friend, there you have a slice of perfection on a plate.”

“We can’t afford plates, either,” Anders pointed out.

Shrugging, Varric dropped two more pears into his basket. “Everyone’s a critic.”

Anders looked down at Varric, several pears in his large hands that rattled hollowly as they fell into Anders’ basket. For a moment, the silence that fell between them weighed more than both of their baskets put together.

Then, there came the laughter that both of them needed. The laughter felt as light as the air around them, warm as the sun that baked their skin, and free.

 

~*~

 

“Here’s the salve.” Anders placed a large leaf on the ground next to Varric’s bedroll. Varric lay on his chest, exposing his back to the cooler air. The skin there ached with a large, angry red burn.

“Worst one I’ve ever had.” Varric reached for the salve, winced, and withdrew his hand. “Doing anything hurts. Anything. Breathing, talking, thinking…”

“I’ll put it on you.” Anders knelt down next to Varric’s bedroll, retrieving the leaf from where he’d left it. “Donnic said that he would lend you his extra shirt to wear tomorrow. The salve will heal the burn completely, but you should keep your chest and back covered up for the next few days.”

“I’m supposed to wear Donnic’s shirt? Just what I needed, a frock with very long sleeves.” Varric winced, his fingers curling around his pillow even as Anders’s fingers slid through the salve and moved toward the burns. “I hear that they are all the rage in Hightown, sleeves flopping over your…OW!”

Anders withdrew his hand, the fingertips slick with the salve. “It’s going to hurt while I apply the salve. I’m sorry. I could cast a painkilling incantation on you, but it would be like killing a beetle with a boulder. There’s just no need.”

“Either way, the beetle is dead, isn’t it?” Closing his eyes tightly, Varric curled his fingers around the edge of his bedroll. “Go on. Put it on me.”

Agony filled the first few seconds. Anders’ fingertips felt as though he had been born with sandpaper hands, ripping the damaged flesh directly from Varric’s strong bones. Varric gritted his teeth, but could not help but utter a few strained, twisted groans. It _hurt_. He felt as though he was entitled. They were alone in the cave, after all. Everyone else was outside, enjoying the nearby spring and a sunset filled with gorgeous colors. Neither of those would Varric see this evening.

Then, as if a cool, healing wind brushed across his skin, the pain diminished until it faded into a far-distant memory. What remained was the touch of Anders’ fingertips. Varric could at last focus on their journey across his back, how they rubbed the salve into his flesh, tenderly kneading the muscles as if they were dough to be baked.

The massage was unexpected, but welcome. Months upon months of sleeping on the ground and working hard in the fields of whatever farmers would hire them had taken its toll on Varric’s body, leaving aches and pains behind whenever he walked, or merely sat still. Now, even those memories, tied deeply to his muscles, seemed to vanish wherever Anders’ fingers touched.

The touch became lighter, stroking downward from his shoulder blades to his waist. Anders’ fingers felt like feathers, so light upon his skin, comforting and yet…

…and yet…

“Turn over.” Anders’ words whispered into Varric’s ear, the breath caressing the skin there just as Anders’ fingers had done to his back. “I’ll do your chest.”

Varric tried to utter a witty retort. Certainly the salve would mat his chest hair, if it would be able to penetrate the skin at all. However, he found himself calmer and caught in the moment, almost mesmerized by the gentle touch of Anders’ hands. He did as he was told, shivering slightly as the burned skin on his chest came in contact with the air. His nipples tingled, hardening from a chill that was more reflexive than anything else…

Or was it?

Anders’ finger circled Varric’s navel, and for a moment, the world returned to the prone dwarf.

Varric let out a rumbling chuckle. “Now, now, if your intention was to tickle me, you could have just asked. Of course, I would have said no.”

He opened his eyes. Anders was smiling down at him, his eyes soft and filled with vulnerability – not the uneasy sort, but the wondrous type. Anders wanted to share this with him. It wasn’t the act of healing; Anders had healed him many, many times during their seven years together in Kirkwall. It was the act of nurturing – healing the body and the soul, soothing both together, giving comfort when and where it was needed most.

Varric found himself at loss for words. He only smiled back.

A few weeks before, he had so badly wanted to nurture Anders, and now, this man that he had come to consider a friend had beaten him to the metaphorical punch.

A rock rattled across the cave floor as Anders shifted his weight, kneeling over Varric rather than next to him. Resting his slick thumbs upon Varric’s shoulders, Anders slid his long, capable fingers through the hair there, leaned forward, and kissed him fully on the mouth.

Varric’s chest tingled as Anders’ shirt slid over his slick, burned skin, but there was no pain. Not now. He found himself trapped between his bedroll and Anders himself and surprised himself in the fact that he did not give a damn.

In fact, Varric also discovered, much to his own surprise, that he was amused at the accuracy of his own prediction. He had been right about the thumbs.

Author’s prerogative, indeed.


End file.
